


the gods themselves

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Porn with vague approximation of plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Tenderness, Unresolved Romantic Tension, first of all this is like...canon compliant but idk everyone has amnesia or something, hehehe uh, the point is it's a happy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: “Thank you.”Heron looks up from the small book he’d been reading, his lips curling upward into a surprised smile. He cups a hand around his ear and turns his head, leaning halfway across the table. “What was that?”“I said th—” Seraphim stops, brows furrowing. Is he being mocked? There’s no cruelty in Heron’s expression though, only subtle shades of mischief, hidden laughter. When was the last time someone teased him? “You’re...joking.”Heron laughs, the sound bright and pleasant. “Yes. And you’re welcome.”They sit in companionable silence after that, and for a little while, Seraphim allows himself to pretend that he deserves any part of this.
Relationships: Heron/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is...soft. it's full of lust and pining and humor and is honestly kind of silly and ooc. please peep all the tags before reading and move along if this isn’t your thing.

Seraphim wakes as he usually does, which is to say, violently.

Sometimes the climb back into consciousness is slow and creeping, an exhausted reclamation of reality: he’s here, _alive_ , and free of the horrors that plague his past and reverberate in his dreams, night after night after night.

This morning, he greets the breaking day with a wild gasp, surging upwards in the feather-soft mattress, chest heaving as his head whips around, taking in his surroundings. It’s the same quaint, airy room he fell asleep in last night, the same trunk and table and jug of water. He looks down at the sheets, kicked halfway off the bed, and then at his hands, flexing open and shut, turning and inspecting them curiously. The change is happening slowly, but surely: since Heron pressed a hand to the top of his head and let that electric blue current pass through them both, Seraphim has been slowly losing his demonic form. That was nearly two weeks ago. The claws are gone, though his skin retains the same blue-grey pallor, shot through with prominent veins. Neither has the white receded from his hair, though his eyes are steadily losing their unsettling red glow.

There’s a knock, and he’s up and out of the bed in a flash, crouching low, one arm outstretched for his bident before he remembers, again, that it’s gone.

“Seraphim?”

He passes a hand over his face at the familiar voice, breathing deeply. He’s safe here, he has to remind himself, though the thought is an odd one, after years of being the monster that people feared to even look upon. He glances over at the looking glass perched above the desk, meets the startled reflection there. His largest horn is still sharply prominent, protruding grotesquely from his right temple. He’s never had much use for vanity, as his one imperative in this life was only ever to survive, but now that he is seemingly free of that constraint, now what?

“I know you’re not still asleep.”

“You can come in, Heron,” he responds finally, voice still gruff with sleep. He straightens from his defensive stance as the door opens to admit his brother, whose pleasant expression quickly switches to one of alarm as he looks between the bed and Seraphim. He must still appear shaken.

“What is it?” The concern in his tone sends a flutter of warmth through Seraphim’s chest, though the simultaneous flare of annoyance is more familiar, easier to access. 

“Nothing,” Seraphim answers shortly, turning away to pick up the fallen sheets, unwilling to meet Heron’s curious gaze. Funny how quickly he’s become accustomed to turning his back in another’s presence, which he’d trained himself for years not to do. There’s something indisputably... _comforting_ about Heron, which is foreign enough to feel wrong on a fundamental level. 

There’s a pause, and then the slight groan of the doorframe, as if it now supports Heron’s weight. He pictures him there, arms crossed against his chest, watching Seraphim with those guileless blue eyes. “Nightmares again?” 

Seraphim doesn’t answer, though he does wonder how Heron would know.

“You yell, sometimes,” comes the response, as if he’d plucked Seraphim’s thoughts directly from his brain. Seraphim stiffens, shoulders and back tight, and suddenly feels very foolish for pretending to make this bed when he doesn’t actually know how to do it well, and certainly doesn’t care. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, teeth gritted.

“I came to say good morning,” Heron responds, his tone light, but wary. “Is that allowed?”

_It’s your house,_ Seraphim wants to retort, though that’s only half-true, as Heron keeps reminding him. He has a stake and place in this new life they’re forging here too, in this tall-ceilinged abode close to the ocean. Free from the wrath and machinations of the gods—for now, at least, thanks to the deal brokered between Hades and Apollo. 

Heron sighs at Seraphim’s stony silence, pushes himself from the doorframe and rubs at the back of his neck. “Well, if you’re hungry, there’s breakfast in the kitchen.” He raps at the wood twice before he leaves, his footsteps light.

Seraphim only looks up when he’s sure that he’s totally alone, sighing into the silence. He crosses to the window, losing himself in thought as he stares out at the rolling surf, the tall grass waving in the gentle breeze. 

When Seraphim enters the kitchen, Heron is nowhere to be seen, to both his disappointment and relief. There’s freshly sliced bread and cheese, a bowl of plump fruit and a jug of crisp, cool water. Seraphim eyes the generous spread curiously, wondering if Heron has already eaten, feeling somewhat perplexed by the effort that went into the preparation. He bites into a peach, unable to hold back a small grunt of delight at the sweet taste that spills over his tongue, drips messily down his chin.

“You’ve emerged,” a voice comes from behind him, and Seraphim turns, embarrassed, hastily wiping away the mess, suddenly all too aware that he’d forgotten to dress himself before leaving his room. Heron gives him a careful smile, his eyes tracking the way Seraphim licks away the remaining juice in the corner of his mouth before sliding away, dropping his bag onto the table. “They’re good, right?”

“Yes.” Seraphim swallows, unsure what to do with himself, but he’s not leaving the kitchen just because he still doesn’t know how to be normal around other people. He’s hungry. “This was unnecessary.” 

Heron drops himself into one of the chairs, looking up at Seraphim with a puzzled quirk of his brow. “What was unnecessary?” 

“This.” Seraphim takes another bite, gesturing with his other hand at the food. Heron follows the direction of his gesticulation, then looks back at Seraphim, shaking his head slowly in confusion.

“The food that...you’re eating...is unnecessary?” He looks like he’s genuinely trying to understand, which is infuriatingly endearing. Then his expression shifts to one of dawning realization, his eyes softening in a way that makes Seraphim suddenly eager to avoid his gaze.

“Never mind,” he grumbles.

“It was no trouble.”

“I said never mind.”

Heron rolls his eyes, but there’s no real ire in it, and something occurs to Seraphim, a thought that makes his heart race, which is absurd. Life is truly an endless series of transactions, trading favors and labor that are based upon agreed-upon value systems, all precarious, all contingent on the people operating within it. He, Seraphim, is operating within a totally different one now. Maybe, someday, the knowledge will stop being less jarring every time it occurs to him.

He finishes the peach, squeezing the hard pit in his palm, letting on the slight pain harden his resolve, opening his mouth to force the words out.

“Thank you.”

Heron looks up from the small book he’d been reading, his lips curling upward into a surprised smile. He cups a hand around his ear and turns his head, leaning halfway across the table. “What was that?”

“I said th—” Seraphim stops, brows furrowing. Is he being mocked? There’s no cruelty in Heron’s expression though, only subtle shades of mischief, hidden laughter. When was the last time someone _teased_ him? “You’re...joking.” 

Heron laughs, the sound bright and pleasant. “Yes. And you’re welcome.” 

They sit in companionable silence after that, and for a little while, Seraphim allows himself to pretend that he deserves any part of this. 

* * *

As time passes, the pretending becomes easier.

They fall into a rhythm, somehow: Heron hunts and fishes, setting some of the bounty aside for themselves, taking the rest to the local markets and fetching a healthy remuneration each time. Enough for them to afford spices, wine, and decent soap—luxuries Heron had never enjoyed, and that Seraphim had scarcely conceived of owning for himself. Though it’s not only Heron’s income that ameliorates their new lifestyle: Seraphim finds he takes pleasure in wood carving and sculptures, enjoying the quiet meditation of each piece, reveling in the tedious deliberateness of the work, using sheer imagination and skill to watch something entirely new emerge from a material entirely mundane. He thinks he can understand the gods a bit more, in some small way, as he forges new creations that he can call his own. And the townspeople enjoy them, even if he still wears a low hood and avoids excessive conversation when he brings them to market. His transformation continues apace—his skin bears no red veins, his eyes gone back to brown—but his appearance has always inspired fear and revulsion, even prior to consuming the giant flesh. Best to play it safe, rather than risk compromising their position. 

Heron would be disappointed, that much is clear. Seraphim is learning that his brother is happiest when communing with others—he thinks highly of some of the other hunters he considers acquaintances, regaling Seraphim of this one’s new child and that one’s lewd joke. After so many years living in ignominy and fear, ever hiding from Hera’s watchful gaze, even if he wasn’t aware that’s what he was doing, Heron refuses to take for granted, now, being regarded highly by those who know him—or, at least, no longer being spat on and called bastard. He’s quick to smile and laugh, his spirit lighter, somewhat, though also toughened, formed into something more durable through loss. Seraphim likes to watch him ramble, as they pick their way through the sand to sit on the beach and watch the shimmering turquoise sea, as they prepare a meal together, Seraphim quietly reaching over to correct a mistake before Heron is able to make it. 

There’s a faint glow to his skin when he’s at his happiest, which Seraphim knows is thanks to his demigod blood, but also feels so distinctly _Heron_ , his inherent goodness made manifest, that it makes Seraphim feel...pleased. He’s never experienced this phenomenon in adulthood, that of bringing another person happiness, seeing it spelled out so evident across their features, in the playful joy in their voice when they greet each other after a long day. If this is what it is to belong to someone, to be a part of a family, then he will not jeopardize it.

And he will certainly not allow anyone else to jeopardize his brother’s happiness and peace, either.

It happens on a dusky twilight evening when Heron is walking home: a group of three roving bandits surprise him on an empty road—or what they assumed was empty, not knowing that Seraphim was just far enough behind to be out of sight. He’d left to collect more wood and ended up on the same path as Heron, and planned to catch up and surprise him before the strangers emerged from the brushes. 

He almost pities them, almost, as he charges ahead, blood pounding furiously through his veins, grinning widely as the thundering pace of his steps make all three whirl in shock, then dismay, as they take in his hulking form. Faster than they can blink, there is a loud, sickening crack as Seraphim snaps one’s arm and another splintering crunch as he breaks the nose of another, then turns to the third, wrapping a hand around his neck, lifting him easily from the ground.

“Are these cretins bothering you, little brother?” he growls, shaking the trembling man as he chokes wetly, scrabbling uselessly at Seraphim’s thick forearm. Heron spits out a mouthful of blood and shakes his head tiredly, placing a quelling arm on Seraphim’s shoulder. His touch is warm, though it paradoxically cools the inferno swirling beneath Seraphim’s skin.

“Let them go,” Heron says tiredly. “They’ve learned their lesson.”

Seraphim turns to regard Heron, then shrugs, opening his hand, watching with mingled amusement and irritation as the pathetic man flops to the ground, then half-runs, half-stumbles away with his two wailing cronies. He’s pissed his breeches, which Seraphim snorts at until he realizes his hood has fallen, revealing his milky eye and garish scar, as well as the inhuman tint of his skin. 

“You should have let me kill them,” Seraphim complains, turning to look Heron over closely, grunting in satisfaction when he finds no major injuries. “They might say too much.”

Heron picks up his sack, which was discarded in the dust in the struggle, and then jerks his head in the direction of home, continuing to walk. “Come on. And I think you’ve terrified them quite enough.” He slants a sideways look at Seraphim, a smile tugging at his lips, despite the crusted blood in the corner of them. “You do remember I’m a demigod...right?”

As if he could forget. Seraphim tamps down the warmth rising in him, scowling. “And I’m a _former demon."_ He exaggerates the words, the ridiculousness of them. What’s your point?” He’s rewarded by Heron’s quiet laughter, as he hoped he would be.

“My point is, you don’t need to rush to my rescue. And ‘little brother?’ Seraphim, we’re maybe five minutes apart.”

“Who was born first?”

“Well, alright, technically you, but—”

“Exactly. _Little_ brother.” Seraphim can’t hold back a smile when Heron just shoves him in response, and it only grows bigger as he gives into the urge to bury his fingers in Heron’s thick hair and tousle it gently. Stars are beginning to wink into view overhead as they close the distance to their front door, the looping evening song of the magpies a familiar serenade.

* * *

Time passes, and the nightmares continue. 

Seraphim can barely remember a time before them, and wonders if this is perhaps meant to be his punishment, doomed to relive the pain and bloodshed and gore he’d endured and enacted, night after night after night. If he thinks of it that way, it feels just. Why should he be entitled to peaceful rest?

“You need sleep to survive,” Heron argues often, a concerned frown crossing his beautiful features. “You can’t afford to make a mistake with one of your carving knives because you can’t focus.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

A few days later, Seraphim does exactly that: his head is pounding with exhaustion, his skin feeling tight and uncomfortable, and it’s only the sudden, sharp sting and warmth dripping onto his knee that alerts him to the fact that he’s sliced neatly into the center of his palm. He curses, clutching the wound with his other hand, rising to stand and looking around for a rag, something to staunch the swell of blood. The sun is high and hot in the sky, and the enclosed space he works in heats up quickly, so he doesn’t bother with shirts most days. He spares a moment to lament that before elbowing his way out and into the yard, blinking woozily. Maybe Heron had a point. His only consolation is that his brother is not currently home to say “I told you so,” though the satisfaction is undercut by Seraphim’s growing fear that he may collapse of exhaustion and blood loss in the next few minutes. Humiliating.

A rustling movement catches his attention before he’s crossed the yard, and he curses his current weakness—the last thing he needs right now is some unknown threat when defending himself is so difficult. He steps quietly and peers around the house, face slackening in surprise when he sees who is at the front door.

“Alexia.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He blinks, and suddenly she’s right there, and whether it’s because of whatever magic she possesses or because of the way his head pounds even more intensely now, black spots closing in, he cannot say.

“Seraphim! What—you’re hurt.” She glances around, then looks back at him, tilting her head. “Where is Heron?”

“Not here.”

She watches him for another moment, then comes to a decision. “Can you walk?”

Foolish woman. “Of course I can walk,” he grumbles, pushing himself off the wall, which he didn’t know he’d been leaning so heavily against, and promptly tilts, only caught when Alexia wraps an arm around his waist, holding him securely upright. Her quiet gloating is unbearable, but she’s reassuringly solid as she moves them both toward the door, and her hair smells of the forest. Still, his pride. “Tell...no one of this.”

She snorts, tightening her grip around him as she turns the doorknob and eases them both across the threshold. “As you wish. Sit.” She deposits him onto a large chair in their sitting room, and Seraphim obeys gratefully, doing his best to keep his eyes open and alert as she moves around their house like she already owns the place. 

“Why are you here? What’s wrong?”

She’s back quickly, stooping in front of him with a bowl and pitcher of water. Pulling his hand into both of hers, she effectively washes the wound, inspecting it closely. “Saving you, apparently.” She glances up at him with a smirk, as if knowing the comment will rile him up. At his answering glare, she shakes her head with a small sigh. “Nothing is wrong. I heard you were—that you both had settled here. I was curious.”

“Curious?” Seraphim questions, his eyes on the deft movements of her hands as she dresses the wound. Her touch is sure and firm, none of the nervous hesitation that he usually sees in the women in the market, especially when they’re anywhere near him. 

“Two brothers, separated at birth, who not too long ago were hell-bent on killing each other? Yes, I was curious.”

“And you and Heron…” Seraphim can’t resist any longer, his head lolling back as he gives in to his exhaustion. The bandage is secure, it would seem, but her fingers continue stroking the material, which feels better than he would like to admit. It took weeks for him to get accustomed to Heron’s occasional touches, unused to such easy affection, but there is no such disorientation with Alexia. He decides to blame it on his vulnerable state. 

“Me and Heron?” Alexia asks, confused. “You seem dehydrated.”

“I thought—forget it.” He takes the proffered glass and drains it quickly. “Thank you.”

“You really _have_ changed,” she muses, taking the glass and setting it on the table. “I wasn’t sure if the rumors were true.”

Rumors? Seraphim tries to answer, but sleep is too close and too insistent, dragging him under. There’s a quiet laugh, fingertips ghosting across the wrist of his injured hand, and then nothing. 

* * *

When Seraphim wakes, the sun has set, his hand is sore, and there’s faint conversation and laughter that he recognizes as having woken him up. He blinks and yawns, enjoying the few moments of heavy-eyed lassitude, and realizes with a jolt that he’d had, for once, a completely dreamless sleep. 

He unfurls himself slowly from the chair and rubs his face with his uninjured hand, yawning again. He can hear the voices more clearly now: Heron and Alexia are in the kitchen, and Seraphim’s skin warms when he remembers, with some difficulty, the way she’d arrived at just the right time, tending to his stupidly self-inflicted wound and serving him water in his own home. He has half a mind to silently creep past the yellow-lit doorway of the kitchen but he’s caught before he’s even able to take a step, Heron appearing suddenly with a knowing grin.

“You look rested, brother,” he offers, and it’s not nearly as openly mocking as Seraphim expects, which surprises him into silence. Heron raises an eyebrow, glancing back to the kitchen quickly, and Seraphim finally notices the pink flush in his cheeks. “She’s staying for dinner.”

This is clearly a prospect that pleases him, and Seraphim feels pleased too, though the commonality feels discordant, somehow. “And _you’re_ cooking?”

Heron’s mouth falls open for a moment, then he scoffs, pushing lightly at Seraphim’s shoulder in mock offense. “I’m not that bad!” 

Seraphim’s mouth twists as he tries not to smile, and he starts to remind Heron of last week’s oil-burning incident when he’s suddenly encircled in a strong embrace, his brother’s face pressed tightly against the side of his head. They’ve never done this before, _hugging_ , and it’s enough of a shock that brings something so tender and yearning fluttering from Seraphim’s chest that he returns the gesture unthinkingly, letting his eyes fall shut. Heron smells like sweat and the ocean, his hair like velvet crushed against Seraphim’s face.

“I was worried,” he says quietly, his mouth brushing Seraphim’s ear, and the three simple words contain volumes that Seraphim hears with ringing clarity. _Don’t do that. Don’t test the fates. Don’t leave me alone again._

“Okay,” Seraphim says simply, meaning, _you have no reason to be,_ and pulls away without truly wanting to. Heron looks a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as he ducks his head down, looking coyly back up at Seraphim with a small grimace, his next words a reluctant mumble.

“Maybe I do need help with the meal.”

With a rush of affection that blazes through him until it manifests as a quiet chuckle, Seraphim steps forward to nudge Heron gently, bodily out of the way of the kitchen. He’s a full inch taller, and Heron sways into his touch before stepping aside. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up, Seraphim.”

Alexia turns when Seraphim enters the kitchen, her normally imperious expression shifting back into place just a bit, as if girding herself for something unpleasant. Seraphim considers addressing earlier as he steps past her to cross to the pantry and survey its contents, then momentarily loses his nerve. “Is it true Amazons don’t eat meat?”

“I eat meat.”

Something about the immediate, casual manner of her response makes him lose track of what he’s doing for a moment, and he’s strangely glad to have his back to her. Then he recovers himself, turning his head to the side, just enough to catch a glimpse of her in the periphery. Heron is not there, and Seraphim is grateful, for some reason.

“Then the lady will have some meat.” He smirks at her affronted sound, knowing it’s the “lady” she objects to. The thought amuses him. “Tell me the real reason you have come.”

There’s a short silence, and Seraphim busies himself with cutting the herbs. “There is...peace,” she answers finally, sounding almost puzzled. “I find myself with idle time. It is…”

“Boring,” Seraphim finishes for her, tipping his head to the side, moving it slowly back, a practiced shrug that moves his hair away from his good eye while his hands are occupied. Alexia snorts, the sound harsh and unfeminine. Seraphim likes it. 

“Yes, I suppose.” There’s a faint squeak, like a chair is being dragged against the floor, and then light footsteps, a presence registering on Seraphim’s right side. When he glances over, her back is to the counter, her eyes ceaselessly roving the brightly lit kitchen, the strings of herbs and tubs of grain, flour, sugar, and salt, the cured meats resting in their containers. “Have you ever had all this, before?”

Seraphim looks away, selects an onion, and begins to chop. “No.”

Alexia hums, and the skin along the back of his neck prickles when he feels her head turn, her eyes following the movements of his hands. They’re smooth and brown and tanned again, his nails as square and trimmed as any human’s. He imagines her hands, suddenly, and remembers them wrapped around a sword, and shakes his head to physically knock the unbidden memory from his mind.

She notices. “What are you thinking?”

A strange question. He furrows his brow, jaw shifting, doing his best to dispel the creeping heat beneath the surface of his skin. “Why should I tell you?” It comes out more petulant than he would like, and his face burns even hotter when she laughs.

“I don’t know why, Seraphim, but I like you,” she says carefully, as if unaware of which words will leave her mouth and in what order, and when Seraphim looks over again, she’s looking right back at him, something like uncertainty clenched around her mouth. Her lips are pink, curved like the petals of a crocus flower.

“I’ve found some wine,” Heron declares, and they both turn in unison to find him standing in the doorway, wearing a pleased grin as his bright gaze takes them both in. “Are you not at each other’s throats? I see I was worried for nothing.”

Alexia avoids Seraphim’s eyes as she smiles, moving across the floor to pluck one of the bottles from Heron’s hand, surveying it closely. 

“Is it to your liking?” Heron asks, trying for playfully sardonic and ending up closer to puppyish, obsequious. Seraphim can’t help his small grin, though something like guilt whispers through him simultaneously. Her voice is a marked contrast: lighter, more sure, when she addresses Heron.

“Let us open it and see.”

* * *

It’s an unusual night. Not only because they have company, which is rare in and of itself, but Alexia’s presence is both unsettling and pleasurable. She does not overtly compliment the food, but it doesn’t escape Seraphim’s notice when she clears a second and third helping. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that such a formidable warrior has a healthy appetite. 

Heron is in his element, electric blue eyes dancing with mirth as he listens to Alexia’s tales of battles past, as he cajoles and ribs Seraphim, describing their own adventures together. _Adventures_ seems too strong a word to ascribe to their more lively hunting expeditions, but Seraphim has learned not to begrudge his brother these small, meaningless indulgences. It was peace they desired, and it is peace they are enjoying right now.

Later, Seraphim sneaks a glance sideways at Alexia as the three of them recline in the grass of the modest backyard, watching the stars. Heron loves the constellations, always pointing them out and explaining the stories behind their far off, twinkling formations, and Alexia wears a small smile as she follows the line of his finger, arms clasped behind her head. And then her eyes skate sideways, not far enough to land on Seraphim, but deliberate enough to let him know she’s noticed him looking. Her smile grows. He takes his time looking away.

“—and that’s why there are so many stars in the Pleiades,” Heron finishes, his voice warm and content, and Seraphim looks back heavenward, wondering when it had stopped feeling like an act of betrayal to let himself smile, as well.

* * *

The nightmares return. 

Seraphim is dragged back to consciousness and into a firm hold, back pressed into a broad chest, arms enveloping his shaking frame. And then he tenses, a millisecond away from incapacitating the intruder when Heron’s voice is in his ear, his breath warm. “It’s just me, Seraphim, wake _up—”_

“I’m awake,” he blurts, heart pounding, still wracked with horror from the dream. His voice is rough, quieter than usual. “Why are you here?” 

“You kept calling out.” Heron’s voice is just as low, strained with worry. “Like you were...in terrible pain.”

Seraphim exhales a humorless laugh, dimly aware that he should probably move away from Heron’s embrace, but he’s offering it so freely, and Seraphim is currently a little too undone to deny it feels good. “I’m fine,” he lies.

More than _good,_ his brother’s proximity and affection makes him feel safe. The thought is starkly vulnerable enough to make him shudder in something like embarrassment, which has the unintended effect of making Heron pull him in closer, aligning their bodies so that they’re fully pressed together, bare legs tangled beneath the blanket.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Heron asks, as if he already knows the answer.

“No.” Seraphim couldn’t begin to put it to words, anyway. Despite the hyper-awareness he possesses of all the places they’re touching, a slow exhaustion sweeps through him, allowing him to finally relax into Heron’s hold. 

Heron is quiet for a moment. His hands are calloused and warm. “Is there anything I can do?”

Seraphim closes his eyes, swallows. Places his hands over Heron’s, drawing his arms tighter around him, a silent plea. 

Heron understands. The last thing Seraphim feels before falling asleep is a face slowly nuzzling the back of his head, the tip of a nose against his scalp. And then their breaths slow, chests rising and falling as one.

The next morning, Seraphim wakes on his back, which is unusual, with a heavy body draped over his own, which is more unusual. The sun is bright in the sky—there are no responsibilities awaiting them today—and he feels more rested than he ever has. The temptation to just drift back into sleep is like a drug, and he gives in, even as he suddenly remembers, with a soft jolt, how Heron had climbed into his bed last night and held him, speaking low against his ear until his nightmare had melted away.

Some time later, he’s drifting somewhere closer to unconsciousness, dimly aware of the faint, gentle cawing of birds—when Heron shifts, his hair tickling the top of Seraphim’s shoulder, his body a firm line of heat against his front and side. The small movement presses his face against Seraphim’s chest, and he’s abruptly _wide_ awake when Heron sighs softly in sleep, dragging his mouth over the rounded muscle more deliberately, a solid thigh flexing as he rolls his hips in a languid thrust, clearly lost in a _very_ good dream.

Clearly.

Seraphim curses below his breath as a steady heat rushes to his core, swallowing against a flare of need that he knows, has known for a long time, is most unnatural. Wasn’t it? He’d never shared a womb with anyone else, never had his fate so deeply, irrevocably entangled with another mortal soul’s. 

Still, he knows what is accepted and what is not, and this is definitely not.

“Heron,” he says quietly, knowing he should be flinging himself out of bed right now, creating a real physical separation between them. He knows that, just like he knows he shouldn’t let Heron rock into him again, a thick and firm and unmistakable line of heat nudging his hip, shouldn’t thread desperate fingers into Heron’s hair as the wet warmth of his mouth against Seraphim’s skin raises goosebumps. He recognizes the irony in his words, even as they come out rather strained. “It’s me, wake up.”

He can tell the moment Heron is finally awake, because he stiffens with a soft inhale, his face blazing with heat. “I’m awake. I—” He shifts backwards, finally, and Seraphim grits his teeth at the loss, knowing that if Heron were simply to look down, it would be impossible not to notice Seraphim’s aching arousal tenting the sheet. So he can’t let him look down, but unfortunately to his beleaguered mind that means tightening his fingers in Heron’s hair, which draws those electric blue eyes to his, lips parting in surprise. The inside of his mouth is dark pink and wet, and Seraphim can’t stop looking at it, which is the opposite of what he’d intended. 

He loosens his grasp a moment too late, and something darkens in Heron’s eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips. And then he looks down to the juncture of Seraphim’s thighs, swallowing audibly. The tension in the air is nearly a physical weight, simmering and thick. Seraphim is helpless, paralyzed, heart pounding incessantly as Heron looks back up at him, crimson staining his cheeks. 

“I—didn’t mean t-” Seraphim’s halting words fade, his fingers spasming in the sheets as Heron doesn’t disentangle himself or throw a punch, only tucks his face into Seraphim’s neck, expelling a small groan of pure longing and frustration. 

This affliction, then, is shared. But it is unraveling too quickly, dragging them both under the rushing current, and Seraphim’s hand rises from the bed to wrap around Heron’s back, not sure if it’s to shove him away or pull him in closer, his head reeling. “Heron.”

“Seraphim.” He breathes the word into Seraphim’s skin, tortured and hot, his voice roughened with desire, and Seraphim feels his cock jerk against his belly, the illicit _wrongness_ of this sharpening the edge of his lust. _“Fuck.”_

A thousand and one desires whir past Seraphim’s mind’s eye, each one more damning than the last. He can be strong, he always has been. “We can’t.”

“I know.” Desperate, resigned, Heron tilts his head up to _bite_ at his jaw, drawing a hiss from Seraphim, the promise of a deliberate wet tongue nearly more than he can bear. And then as if by instant, tacit agreement they both pull away, Seraphim rising to sit at the edge of one side of the bed, his arms stiff and straight, fingers clutching the sheets—Heron on the other, his head in his hands. 

The silence is heavy, and awful.

Seraphim can’t think of a single thing to say, and Heron is usually the one who fills the air with ephemera when needed, but this is beyond him as well. So Seraphim does the only thing he can think of, and leaves the room. 

He wants to look back. He doesn’t.

* * *

Heron doesn’t make a nightly return, but the nightmares don’t either, so Seraphim accepts the blessing and does his best to keep his distance from his brother. 

It’s easy, at first, because Heron is just as embarrassed as Seraphim is, and they’re able to fall back into their routines with comforting regularity. They move around each other with a natural rhythm that feels more instinctive than practiced, and the ease returns, allowing them to hold each other’s gaze for more than three seconds, to have a full conversation without it dissolving into self-conscious silence.

Weeks, months pass in measured tranquility, and one day, when Seraphim looks into the mirror, there is no longer any trace of the giant’s curse upon him. His skin is uniformly tan and smooth, undisturbed by inhuman protrusions and snaking red veins. His hair is a deeper brown than Heron’s, long and thick. And his good eye—that’s his again, too.

Among other things.

“You’re getting shaggy, brother,” Heron teases one day as Seraphim steps into the kitchen, following the smell of seared cod and fresh bread. He’s leaning against the counter beside the still-steaming food with his arms crossed over his chest, grinning broadly. 

Seraphim raises a questioning eyebrow, stepping in close to inspect the pan. “You made this?”

“Do you see anyone else here? You’ve taught me well.” Heron reaches out to stroke the underside of his chin with the second knuckle of his index finger, the touch light and thoughtless. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Seraphim lifts his shoulder in a shrug, turning away to get a bowl to fill with food, head still fogged with sleep. “I didn’t particularly care. You think I should shave it?”

When Heron doesn’t answer, Seraphim looks over at him, a bit startled to find himself under intense scrutiny, as if Heron is thinking hard about his answer. When his eyes meet Seraphim’s again, they’re at odds with the playfulness of his tone. “I think I’d enjoy watching you try.”

“I know how to shave myself, Heron.” His words are somewhat garbled through the generous bite just taken. “S’good.”

“Have you ever done it before?”

“It can’t be that difficult.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Heron huffs out a laugh when Seraphim jostles him with his shoulder, mouth too full to speak. “Fine, fine, I will show you.”

Seraphim just shakes his head, turning to settle into a seat, a smile skirting the edges of his mouth as Heron leaves the kitchen, not before grazing a gentle hand over Seraphim’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

* * *

It’s a few days later that Heron corners Seraphim after bathing, cajoling him into sitting on a raised stool in the middle of the kitchen, where the light is brightest in the house, so that he can shave him.

“Is there a reason this needs to happen right now?” Seraphim grouses, wishing he were slightly more dressed, but Heron’s determined expression as he sets out his tools tells him he won’t be deterred. 

“Best to do this when the hair is most soft.” He nudges beneath Seraphim’s chin, knuckles brushing against the grain of the thicker hairs there, and the motion stirs something in Seraphim’s chest that he ignores. Heron meets his eyes, then drops his gaze back to one of his blades, which he begins sharpening on a small whetstone. His hair is getting longer, curls the same color as Seraphim’s looser waves now reaching the tops of his shoulders. He’s pulled half of it away from his face in a small topknot, but a few tendrils have escaped, grazing his temples. “Now, I will try not to cut you.”

Seraphim glares at him, using both hands to twist his wet hair away from his face and pile it over his shoulder. “How about, you _will not,_ full stop.” 

Heron smirks as he tilts Seraphim’s chin this way and that with gentle fingers, calm and assessing. “Don’t you trust me?”

Seraphim’s eyes move to the sharp blade, which seems to glint in the morning sunlight. “Hmm.”

Quirking an eyebrow at Seraphim, Heron picks up the bowl of what a thick white foam. “I won’t take that to heart, Seraphim. Ready?”

“Get on with it already.” The corner of Seraphim’s mouth lifts when Heron rolls his eyes, but then his attention is caught by the slow, sweeping motions of Heron’s fingers as he spreads the smooth foam across his jaw, his brows set in concentration. He remembers the way Alexia had watched Heron and smiled at him when she came over, as if both captivated and amused by his easy laughter and wit—similar to the way Seraphim has sometimes seen the young men and women in the town glance at him as he passes in the street, straight-backed, gleaming with divine strength and vitality. It’s impossible to mistake the electric blue of his brother’s eyes as anything but otherworldly, though equally as impossible to ever find within his spirit a hint of the narcissism or deadly ego of the gods. 

He’s the best of all of them, Seraphim thinks fiercely, and then his heart nearly stops when said blue eyes find his, as if he’d spoken out loud. It occurs to him then how openly he’s staring, and curses inwardly as the curiosity in Heron’s gaze brings blood rushing to the surface of his cheeks.

To his mild horror, Heron notes his blushing with satisfaction and no small amount of delight, his lips curling upward into a knowing smile. “Something on your mind, brother?” 

Slightly taken aback at his boldness, Seraphim blinks, inhaling and exhaling steadily. The lower half of his face is cool and somewhat tingly, so he focuses on that sensation, willing away any other distractions that Heron’s proximity inspires. To be on the safe side—he doesn’t trust his voice right now—he shakes his head.

Heron watches him for a moment longer, then continues his methodical work, thankfully saying nothing further. Seraphim’s eyes slip shut as the foam is smoothed below his chin, at the corners where his neck meets his jaw, the sensitive skin below his bottom lip. He isn’t sure if he’s imagining Heron’s fingers lingering there, but he doesn’t open his eyes again to confirm, convinced already that the desperate pounding of his heart is perfectly audible in the otherwise quiet room. This was madness, madness that led them here, that convinced Heron to offer this and Seraphim to accept, and this particular madness was not halved in their sharing it, but doubled, as pervasive and undeniable as that morning they awoke in a tangle of limbs. 

And no, _no,_ he’s not supposed to think of it, but now he is, and the acknowledgement, as always, brings with it the visceral ache of wanting, of knowing what it is to hold Heron that close and now, to suffer without it. Seeing him every day, hearing his voice and learning his smell, keeping him firmly at arm’s length to stay within the realm of what was accepted and righteous, because that was his charge now, was it not? 

“Alright,” Heron’s quiet voice cuts in, dispelling the riotous whirlwind of thoughts, “keep your head like this. I’ll go slow.”

“Okay.” Seraphim’s voice is softer than he means for it to be, and something in him burns when he opens his eyes to see the way Heron is looking at him, the way he turns away and inhales as if steadying himself, and then he picks up the blade. Seraphim’s face must flicker with something like consternation because Heron smiles, cajoling and confident.

“I thought you were brave, Seraphim,” he teases lowly, coming much closer than before, his eyes focused as he makes a long, smooth first pass of the blade, the slow scrape strangely satisfying to both hear and feel. 

“Shut up.”

“Actually, it’s better if you don’t talk while I do this,” Heron responds after wiping away the foam and shorn hairs, and he is enjoying this a little _too_ much. He catches Seraphim’s narrowed eyes and chuckles a little, proving his point, as he makes a second pass, the steadiness of his hand and careful maneuvering of Seraphim’s face belying a measure of skill he’d evidently downplayed. “Very good.”

Seraphim stiffens, a sharp heat spearing his gut at the half-whispered praise, hands opening and closing on his knees as his mind spins frantically through a number of unsettling images to quell his sudden and unexpected spike of arousal. 

_Very good._

His mind traitorously supplies, instead, the memory of Heron’s lips at his neck, hardness digging into his hip, the hoarse, broken off sound of Heron’s desperation right before they’d pulled apart. But if they had continued...

Seraphim’s chest is rising and falling visibly, he knows, and he also knows that nothing can explain away the way his nipples have hardened into peaks, his entire body humming with poorly timed excitement, a livewire. Heron is biting his lip, face similarly flushed with color, and Seraphim’s only comfort is that he is not the only one suffering. When he speaks, though, his voice is assured and laced with a dark humor that does nothing to slow the uneven thump of Seraphim’s heart.

“I learn something new about you every day.” He catches Seraphim’s shocked glance, his crooked smile tinged with embarrassment and pleasure.

“Heron,” Seraphim begins, no idea what he wants to say. 

_“Shh.”_ Pursing his lips in displeasure, Heron wipes the blade again, then resettles much closer, his eyes traveling Seraphim’s face. “Keep still.” His breath washes over Seraphim’s mouth as he speaks, and he bites his lip as he leans in to scrape a smaller blade against the small patch of skin beneath Seraphim’s nose. When he finishes, he wipes away any stray foam from Seraphim's face with a soft wet cloth, and then returns to inspect his work, grazing his fingertips over the freshly shaven skin, admiring.

When the slow touches become unbearable, Seraphim has to speak. “Well?”

Heron rubs a thumb over Seraphim’s lower lip, his mouth falling open when Seraphim hums and instantly, unthinkingly captures it between his teeth, tongue flicking over the tip. “Uh,” Heron says intelligently, eyes clouded with desire, and withdraws his finger, swallowing. “What?”

Seraphim can’t help it; completely overwhelmed from the furiously warring desires within him, now elevated to a fever pitch, and Heron’s seemingly involuntary movement, too overtly lustful to ignore or explain away. So his face splits into rare laughter, gripping Heron’s wrist to keep himself from spiraling into hysterics. Heron watches him with a hesitant half-smile, eyebrows raised. 

“This...is not what I was expecting.”

“No?” Seraphim murmurs, working to tamp down the humor that continues to bubble from his chest. He tugs Heron closer to stand between his parted legs on the stool, his other arm wrapping around his waist. Laughs subsided, now he can barely hear anything above the desperate pounding of his heart in his ears, but there’s an ease to his movements nonetheless, the sheer _relief_ of relinquishing control, at least for a very short while. He will never, as long as he lives, be able to wipe clean the memory of the way Heron is looking at him right now. “What did you expect?”

Heron’s mouth closes and opens as he moves gratefully into Seraphim’s touch, his body warm and solid, shaking his head distractedly. Time takes on a hazy, unreal quality as he curls a hand around the back of Seraphim’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, tilting his head up. “I expected a thank you, at least,” he jokes with a raised eyebrow, a low heat simmering beneath his words.

They’re _flirting,_ Seraphim realizes, and while it’s now obvious that this is not at all an unusual occurrence, there’s something downright thrilling about doing it now, with absolutely no illusions, no way to misconstrue exactly what is going on or why it should feel so natural and obvious to let Heron cup his cheek, and then turn his head to place small, deliberate kisses against his palm, the delicate skin of his wrist. “Thank you,” Seraphim murmurs obediently, lips brushing skin, as he sends a sly glance Heron’s way. “Excellent work.”

Heron's words are fond, and somewhat breathless. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“I trust you.”

At his brilliant, triumphant grin, Seraphim’s heart fractures in his chest, the sweetest pain he’s ever known. “Well then,” Heron says, tugging Seraphim’s hair playfully, angling in, rubbing their noses slowly together. Seraphim's eyes shut as inhales deeply, the sharp, bright smell that is distinctly _Heron._ Their lips almost brush when Heron whispers. “Was admitting that so hard?”

They’re balanced so precariously at the edge of a fathomless precipice, each second bringing them closer to freefall, and Seraphim can’t imagine stopping now, not with Heron so bright and beautiful and _right here,_ the only true and enduring answer to the question he’s struggled to voice his entire life. He’s trembling, they both are, fingers grasping each other tightly, the sound of their breathing shaky and harsh, the sudden scrape of the stool’s legs against the ground as they strain to get closer. 

Heron exhales a low moan as his lips trail across Seraphim’s cheek, and suddenly it’s the easiest thing in the world for Seraphim to turn and capture that mouth with his own, giddy contentment and roaring desire both flooding his lungs at once, spilling into every vein as he finally gets to taste his brother for the first time. Heron’s lips are warm and full and soft, and his small sighs set Seraphim’s head spinning, dizzy for more, moaning softly when Heron opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, his cock swelling beneath his towel at the first hungry press of his tongue—

And then there’s a loud knocking at the front door, and it’s like they’re both immediately doused with freezing water, once again wrenching themselves apart, breathing heavily, unwilling and unable to look away from each other, lips red, shining, kiss-bitten.

The knock comes again, and Seraphim stands, adjusting his towel, scrubbing his hands over his face as Heron begins to clean up the shaving supplies, face and neck flushed scarlet. “Who is it?” he yells, his tone curt.

“It's me. Alexia,” comes the response. “Are you decent?”

Heron and Seraphim quickly lock eyes again, and Seraphim is shocked into stillness when Heron’s expression hardens as he steps closer to press his lips firmly to Seraphim’s ear, curl a sure hand around the jutting bone of a hip, just above the towel. His voice is a harsh whisper, full of the passion they’d shared just moments before. _“We’re not finished.”_

_“Heron?”_

“One moment,” he calls back, his eyes still locked on Seraphim’s, before jerking his head toward the bedrooms, lowering his voice as his gaze sweeps down Seraphim's almost naked body. “I truly hate to say it, but you need some more clothing.”

Was this his game? Making a gentle mockery of this, the depravity of their shared sin? The thought sends a fresh pulse of lust beneath the surface of Seraphim’s skin, and he nods, backing toward the kitchen doorway without a word, giving Heron a wink before he turns to leave. When he glances back, Heron is still watching him as if he has half a mind to set off in hungry pursuit.

“Go answer the door, brother,” Seraphim reminds him, and chuckles to himself when Heron jumps, then does just that. There’s the heavy creak of the door and then a teasing female voice, followed by Heron’s, no doubt offering apologies and explanations for the delay. Seraphim drops the towel and quickly gets dressed, stepping over to examine his face in the mirror, turning to admire the smoothness of his jaw. Maybe he will just let Heron do this whenever he wants, since he seemed to take such pleasure in it.

“Where’s Seraphim?” he hears Alexia ask from the kitchen as he combs his fingers through the long strands of his hair, and then starts to braid. He pictures his brother’s face, warm and slightly embarrassed as he answers, in the very room where, minutes ago, they’d finally given in to temptation. There’s a new feeling rising in him, a lightness, buoyed by the assurance that Heron’s feelings have remained unchanged, that they share a new understanding that belongs to them alone.

Wrapping the long plait in its usual bands to hold it together, Seraphim gives himself a once over and leaves the room. Alexia is seated at the table in her armor, talking animatedly to Heron, and looks up at him when he enters the kitchen.

“Hello,” she says pleasantly, and Seraphim returns the greeting with a half smile and short nod, gut twisting when he accidentally catches Heron’s eye. He opens his mouth to speak before his expression can betray him.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Heron seems amused as he watches Seraphim speak, leaning lazily back in his chair, one arm perched against the back of it. Seraphim turns away to hide his smile, getting cups from the cabinet. “Can I offer you something, since my brother evidently did not?”

“Water is fine,” she says, while Heron barks out a laugh, offended.

“Hey!”

Seraphim sets the cups down, raises an eyebrow at Heron, whose lips twitch as he turns pointedly to Alexia. Before he can speak, she raises a hand, looking between the two of them with suspicious amusement.

“Alright, what’s the joke?”

“What joke?” Heron says too quickly. Seraphim grits his teeth, kicking him beneath the table, pretending not to see him frown in pain.

“Nothing,” he says shortly, keeping his eyes trained on Alexia. “Why are you here?”

She snorts, rolling her eyes, but thankfully moves on. “There’s that bluntness I love. The truth is, I need your help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter earns the E rating. 
> 
> 🙃
> 
> playing real fast and loose with mythology here.

It’s just after dawn when they set out, after a night of preparations and some fitful rest, minds heavy with the task at hand.

The monster Scylla, for so long remained confined to the narrow strait of Messina, has begun to occasionally crawl onto the surrounding beaches, devouring any unlucky souls who happen to pass by with one of its six ravaging heads. After losing several soldiers in her regiment to this bloodthirsty creature, who is insensible with grief and rage after the death of its horrific counterpart, Charybdis, Alexia sought the wisdom of Chiron, who told her exactly what was needed to slay Scylla once and for all.

The concentrated power of a demigod. 

And the blood of a mortal Titan. 

The latter being, of course, significantly more elusive than the first. In fact, it was an ingredient that seemed so laughably oxymoronic that most scholars and heroes passed it off as nonsense and disregarded it, reasoning that there was simply no efficacious way to subdue the monster, that it would need to be avoided instead. When Alexia heard this, however, she knew immediately whose help to seek.

The morning air is light and cool, the horizon unspooling in a generous spread of misty orange as Helios makes his languid ascent. Alexia leads the way as they follow a straggly forest path, Heron behind, Seraphim bringing up the rear. Heron has to resist the temptation to glance behind him every few steps, heart drumming with a strange blend of excitement and unease. 

It’s been nearly a year now since they’d been in a life-threatening situation, and it’s nearly lulled Heron into a sense of peace that he knows is silly to imagine could be sustainable. There’s a slow crawl of dread in the pit of his stomach, one that he hopes is neither intuition nor omen. Not now, when there is so much to lose.

He turns back and sees Seraphim gazing pensively at the ground, lost in thought, until he catches Heron’s movement and looks up. The deep brown of his eyes catch the steadily rising sun, illuminating the hidden warmth there, spilling slow and smooth in time with the furious flutter in Heron’s chest, the curl of remembered pleasure low in his gut. The bright flash of Seraphim’s smile, still so rare to see fully unsheathed. If they do not vanquish this creature, he may never see it again.

“Alright?” Seraphim questions quietly, a small line appearing between his brows, and Heron nods, turning back around. The only sound the faint caw of birds, their steady footfalls in the forest path. 

* * *

They travel until they reach the rocky crags close to the straits, where the very air feels closer, the surrounding mists thick and noxious. 

“We must be quick,” Alexia says in a low voice, pulling a small gourd out of her knapsack, a short blade, and another sealed container. “Seraphim, your hand.”

“What’s the plan?” Heron asks, eyes narrowed as he watches her draw a quick, careful line over Seraphim’s palm, rotating his hand to let the thick drops of blood pool in the bottom of the gourd. 

“Scylla has to drink the mixture,” Alexia responds after a moment, nodding in satisfaction as she quickly binds Seraphim’s hand with gauze. “It’s the only way she’ll be vulnerable to injury.” She nods to Seraphim’s bident, giving him a wry look. “We will need you to throw that thing as if the giant’s blood still flows in your veins.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he responds shortly, hating the uneven tempo of his heart. He will not fail. It's simply not an option. 

“I’m not worried,” Alexia says, her gaze steady, her hand warm and firm in his. After a moment, she turns to Heron to address him. “I need you to call forth your power and concentrate it in your brother’s bident. As much as you’re able.”

“That’s not very precise,” Heron grumbles, rising to stretch his arms above his head, looking heavenward. 

“These things rarely are.”

“How will we get her to swallow it?” Seraphim asks.

Alexia uncaps the mixture, nose wrinkling as she tries not to outright grimace at the awful odor of the poison. “I will handle that part,” she says tightly, upending Seraphim’s blood into it, watching closely, careful to capture every drop. “I know how she thinks, how she moves. But if I am wrong,” she says lightly, her face fierce as she replaces the lid, shakes it slowly, “then know that I...think very highly of you both.”

Heron and Seraphim look at each other, a quiet, shared lance of fear, and Alexia rises, shedding her cloak, pinning her hair all the way up, her eyes trained on the darkened, stony passage where the waters are the rockiest. 

“Let’s go,” she orders.

The smell is enough to make them gag as they get closer, and it takes several moments of deep, torturous inhales to acclimate themselves, to not allow the scent to overpower their other senses. Scylla remains out of sight, churning through the water, and Heron waits in place as Alexia deftly scales the wet cave wall, clutching the small container between her teeth. She leaps lightly down to a small outcropping of rock and nods at him, and Heron closes his eyes, letting his mind go blank and quiet, letting calm suffuse his veins. And then he raises his Seraphim's bident, letting electricity fill the spaces inside him left vacant, channeling the cold, ancient rage of the cosmos, the living power of his divine birthright. And then the burning, icy rush, flowing into and out of him, channeled into the three-pronged weapon raised in his fists. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but when it’s done, he slumps, senseless, to the ground, the blue fire in his eyes snuffed out, limbs heavy. Seraphim takes the bident, his gut knotted in worry at the rapid movements behind Heron's veined eyelids, the cool sheen of sweat covering his face and chest. But this is it—they can hear Scylla’s heavy screeching now, feel the cold sprays of water as she thrashes, alarmed by the sudden and sustained appearance of lightning. With a pleading, desperate kiss to Heron’s forehead, Seraphim lays him gently down.

“Brother, hold on,” he commands in a gruff whisper, and then he _runs_ , drawing the monster’s attention away, feet pounding against sharp, slippery rock as he lifts the bident, taking a small moment to relish its familiar weight and heft in his hand, muscle memory taking over as he takes careful aim, planting his feet wide, crouching and drawing his arm back, letting it loose with a earsplitting roar.

Scylla shrieks in rage at the human’s presumptuous folly, but in her surprise, moves too quickly: the bident pierces one of her many necks, her horrible green teeth bared as black blood gushes from the wound. Above, unseen, Alexia waits, her eyes wide as she watches Scylla sway and wail in pain, more of her twisted, gleaming body rising from the fetid waters, tentacles flailing. When she strays close enough, Alexia leaps, soundless, heading straight for the head with the gaping neck wound, landing directly onto her face, quickly, slashing at Scylla’s eyes until she’s covered in thick, dark blood. The other heads snap at her, but they’re sluggish, rendered nearly powerless by the divinely strengthened bident, by the unexpected blinding. 

“Seraphim, _move!”_ Alexia booms, and Seraphim is just able to dive out of the path of a surprisingly quick tentacle, covered in tiny, razor-sharp appendages. In the next instant Alexia falls, her loud gasp subsumed by a sickening crunch, her body caught in the teeth of one of the monster’s many heads.

“No!” Heron yells, and Seraphim looks over in alarm as Heron staggers to his feet, his skin pale, as he stretches an arm towards Scylla. Seraphim moves on instinct, diving into the murky water, eyes burning instantly as he opens them, trying to outmaneuver the monster’s many limbs. The rush of adrenaline ensures only the most faint bursts of pain as sharpened tentacles drag against and pierce his skin, leaving him gasping as he exits on the opposite shore, just in time for Heron’s blast of lightning to be Scylla’s final death knell, all of her mouths twisting open in agony as the electricity flows through her veins. Alexia’s limp body falls directly into Seraphim’s outstretched arms, and he clutches her close, pressing his face to hers, to her neck, willing her to breathe. He dislikes the unnatural greyish pallor of her skin, the dark blood staining her torso.

“Alexia?” he asks harshly, heart thrumming when her head lolls, eyes blinking rapidly. Her mouth moves, the words blurred, too quiet to hear over the monster’s dying gasps and splashes. “What?”

Alexia coughs wetly, and smiles, her teeth bloody. “You— _idiot.”_

Not sure if he should be heartened or even more apprehensive about her delicate state, Seraphim cradles her closer as he picks his way over the slippery rock, needing to see Heron, to know he’s alright. Alexia’s breathing is shallow, but it’s there, huffing faintly against his neck, and then Heron staggers up to standing, grasping Seraphim’s arm tightly, his eyes shining with relief.

“Did you know lightning and water do not mix, brother?” he asks roughly, dry humor undercutting the anger in his tone. His expression shifts when he looks down at Alexia, one hand rising to brush wet tendrils away from her face. “Is she—”

“Alive, but barely,” Seraphim says, looking over his shoulder to the still-writhing monster. “I think we did what we came here to do.”

“Agreed.” 

The cooler, fresher air outside of the monster’s lair is an instant balm, and Alexia even shifts in Seraphim’s arms, though her paper-white skin and deep wounds bring no further comfort. With no steed, their pace is slower than they would like, and it’s nearly dark when they return home, Heron immediately heading off in search of a physician to attend to Alexia.

When he returns, an stooped, elderly man in tow, Alexia is lying in Seraphim’s bed, barely conscious, but not nearly as pale as she had been. The doctor examines her bite marks, which have already begun to heal.

“She will be alright,” he says conclusively, and Heron breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Her Amazonian blood can withstand much, and she is strong. I will clean her wounds and give her medicine for the pain. She will likely sleep for a day or two, however. You should not be alarmed.”

“Do we need to do anything?” Seraphim asks, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The doctor shakes his head.

“Just let her rest. Now, if you will excuse me—”

Heron and Seraphim leave the room at his gentle suggestion, standing for a quiet moment outside the door once it shuts in their faces.

“Are you alright?” Heron asks Seraphim quietly, looking up at him as he takes his hand, their fingers entwining. Here in their home, alone again, with the threat of danger gone, it’s hard not to feel a little reckless after avoiding what felt like certain doom. 

Seraphim meets his eyes and nods, then pulls him away, leading him down the hallway to Heron’s bedroom and waiting until the door closes behind them to pull him into a firm embrace, wrapping his arms around his brother’s more slight frame and letting himself breathe easily for the first time since they’d set out on their quest. Heron sighs against his neck, curling a hand into Seraphim’s hair, and they’re both silent as they take refuge in each other’s arms, a much-needed moment of grounding after their ordeal, and the fear of losing Alexia.

And then Heron shifts, inhaling, his lips curling into an amused grimace against Seraphim’s neck.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we both desperately need to bathe,” he murmurs, and Seraphim snorts out a laugh. “If I go first, will you make us something to eat?”

Truthfully, all Seraphim wants to do is collapse onto something soft and horizontal, but recognizes the wisdom in this plan. “Fine,” he grumbles, but can’t hold onto his put-upon annoyance when Heron smiles, pleased. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but when Heron catches him looking over at the bed, the heated look he receives in response tells him his thoughts nonetheless do not go unheard.

“I’ll be quick,” Heron promises.

* * *

When Seraphim finishes bathing, he finds Heron sitting alone in the kitchen, gazing out of the window while eating the simple meal of sausage, flatbread and relish that Seraphim had prepared. He looks up when Seraphim enters, gestures to the place across from him. The night is still and peaceful, the moon hung gleaming and full in the inky night sky.

“Thank you,” Heron says sincerely, spooning more relish onto his place. “It’s good!”

Seraphim glances down the hallway as he crosses to the table, sweeping his still-dripping hair over his shoulder. “Is the doctor gone?”

Heron nods, mouth full, and takes a moment to swallow. “Fifteen drachmas was his price. We’re to check on her tomorrow morning and call on him if anything is amiss, but if all goes well, she won’t wake until the day after tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” Seraphim hums, stealing the last sausage from Heron’s plate, grinning triumphantly when Heron watches in consternation.

“There’s a whole pan on the stove!”

“I know, but yours was closer.” Seraphim can’t help but admire the curve of Heron’s hip when he stands to get more, nor the chiseled planes of his stomach when he returns, still scowling. “See?”

“Shut up.” Heron settles back in his seat, watching Seraphim with slightly narrowed eyes. “The doctor assumed you were Alexia’s lover.”

Seraphim swallows, licks his lips as he tears apart a piece of flatbread, raising an eyebrow at Heron. “Is that so?”

Heron hesitates, his eyes suddenly unsure. “You would tell me if you…”

When he doesn’t finish his sentence, Seraphim frowns. “If I what?”

“Don’t—you know what I’m saying, Seraphim,” Heron bites out, visibly annoyed and embarrassed. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.” His cheeks flush red as he drops his gaze, chuckling quietly despite himself. “I sound like a jealous maiden.”

“Yes, you do,” Seraphim agrees, biting back a smile, then letting his mirth show when Heron raises his head, scowling again. “I like it.”

“You—” Heron begins, annoyed, then abruptly scoots his chair back to stand, rising to walk around the table, shaking his head in disbelief when Seraphim immediately moves back as well, grabbing his arm, yanking him down to straddle his lap. There’s no trace of fear or hesitation here, not anymore, and Heron’s skin grows warm with the suggestive position, their considerable lack of clothing, as he loops his arms around Seraphim’s neck, leaning in close.

“Yes, me,” Seraphim teases, his hands finding Heron’s waist.

“Is this what I have to put up with now?” Heron wonders, pressing his lips to Seraphim’s cheek, gasping a bit at the slow scrape of Seraphim’s nails up his back. “Tell me plainly, Seraphim, do you love her?”

“I care for her,” Seraphim admits, threading a hand into Heron’s hair, pulling his head slowly to the side, licking a broad line up his neck. Heron shudders, rocking his hips against Seraphim’s. “As do you. Am I wrong?”

“You’re—not wrong.” Their meal forgotten, Heron whines softly as Seraphim continues the slow assault on his neck. “I, can we, I want—”

_“Yes,”_ Seraphim growls, trailing his lips up the underside of Heron’s chin, biting it, moaning when Heron runs out of patience and palms both sides of his head to keep him in place as their mouths collide in a scorching kiss, desperate breaths escaping as they clutch at each other, needing to taste, to bite, to devour. Without warning, Seraphim’s arms tighten around Heron’s waist as he stands, keeping him securely in place as he walks them back to the bedroom, Heron’s legs wrapped tightly around him. 

There are no more words as Seraphim lowers them to the bed, yanking their towels away, leaving them bared to each other. No more words as Heron scoots backwards, spreading his legs and pulling Seraphim between them, their jaws opening wide to lick into his each other with increasing hunger, blood sparking bright and hot at this final, ecstatic surrender, the levee finally broken. Seraphim’s hair is a dark curtain around them as he braces himself over Heron, stroking a hand down his chest, his twitching stomach, wrapping around Heron’s aching length, swallowing the shaky moan his firm touch pulls forth.

Heron has to pull away to pant brokenly into the heated air, his pupils blown wide and black with lust, pushing up into Seraphim’s touch. His heart beats a furious tattoo inside his chest as Seraphim sweeps kisses across his collarbones, stopping to bite and suck occasionally, leaving scattered bruises in his wake. When his mouth closes around a nipple Heron arches upward with a shout, his cock leaking steadily against Seraphim’s fingers. 

Pleased with his reaction, Seraphim sucks harder, sweeping his thumb across the drooling slit, swallowing against a rush of saliva when Heron’s moans grow louder, more needy. Relinquishing his hold on his cock, Seraphim chuckles darkly when Heron lets out an aggrieved noise, trailing more bruising kisses over to his other nipple, intent on taking him apart as thoroughly as he can, now that he’s finally— _finally_ —granted the privilege. 

“Please,” Heron whimpers softly, stirring something deep in Seraphim’s chest, compelling him to abandon his teasing for a moment to taste his lips again, curling their tongues together, sighing deeply at the singular pleasure of Heron’s mouth. And then he pulls away again, half-mournful to do so, but assuages the loss by palming the insides of Heron’s broad, muscled thighs as he trails kisses down his abdomen, listening with pleasure to the anticipatory gasps and moans. He grunts with pleasure when fingers push slowly into his hair, drawing the shorter strands away from his face as he looks up at Heron from where he hovers over his reddened, aching cock, taking in his flushed skin, his lips swollen and wet. 

And then Seraphim can’t wait a second longer, grasping at the base as he lowers his mouth over the head, head spinning as the salty-sweet taste of his brother’s pleasure spreads over his tongue. 

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Heron breathes, struggling to hold his hips still, twitching so prettily in Seraphim’s grasp. “Seraphim, _please—”_

Already drunk on pleasure, Seraphim can’t deny him anything, hollowing his cheeks as he takes him further in, inch by inch, huffing slow, careful breaths through his nose until he has to pull off, panting, suckling at the tip as Heron loses the battle to keep quiet above him. Shaking his hair out of his face, determined, Seraphim sets back to work, humming in gratitude when Heron again moves his hair aside and helpfully holds it in place, his fingers tightening to the point of sweetest pain when Seraphim relaxes his throat and accepts him fully inside, nose pressed against the curly hairs at the base of Heron’s cock, inhaling gratefully, moaning at the thick, intimate scent.

Heron mumbles broken, breathless apologies as his hips surge upwards, and Seraphim's moans grow louder as he chokes, tears spilling from his eyes as he takes everything Heron gives him, feeling seconds away from coming completely untouched—his entire world narrowed to this, to the way Heron holds him firmly in place as he fucks up into his mouth, heels planted against the bed as his thrusts grow frantic. 

“Seraphim, I’m—I’m gonna—” Heron bites out in a breathless rush, and Seraphim moans encouragingly again, wanting it, _needing_ it, catching Heron’s eye and holding his gaze as small rivulets of saliva creep from the corners of his mouth, holds it as Heron's gorgeous lips part to let out the sweetest cry as he arches and stiffens. And then he has to shut his eyes in gratitude as he swallows and swallows against the flood of release that Heron pumps into his throat, cock twitching as he sucks Heron dry. 

Heron collapses, releasing shallow, shuddering breaths as Seraphim slowly pulls off, licking his lips, pressing his face against the soft flesh of Heron’s quivering thigh with a greedy moan, attempting to calm his own racing heart. His lust is a hungry, roaring thing; he wants to bite and mark and claim his brother until they’re no longer distinguishable from the other, he wants to bury himself inside of him, fill him with his seed until he’s drowned in it. He’s scarcely aware of the desperate, cloying kisses he presses against Heron’s thighs, so lost he is to the riotous swirl of carnal fantasies, that it takes Heron’s hand brushing down his face to bring him back to his senses, blinking as he lifts his head from between Heron's legs.

“Come here, let me,” Heron murmurs, trying to pull him upwards, but Seraphim shakes his head, his white-hot lust a wildfire he cannot hope to tame. 

“Later,” he promises, spreading Heron further and opening his mouth wide to lave hungrily at his balls, unable to suppress a dark chuckle at the high-pitched keen this startles from Heron, his hips jolting upwards in surprise. “Good?”

When he looks up at him, tossing his hair out of his eyes, Heron is gazing back down in something like shock, his face scarlet as he nods jerkily. _“Yes,_ yes, that's good.”

Seraphim sits up and bites his lip, gripping Heron’s hips and turning him over, loving the way Heron whimpers and immediately complies, shoulders and chest sinking into the mattress as he lets Seraphim raise his hips. His skin is hot to the touch, and Seraphim strokes a possessive hand down the center of his broad back, leaving hungry kisses in its wake, bringing both hands up to palm his asscheeks, thumbs digging in as he spreads them.

For one hysterical moment, Seraphim remembers the slow uncertainty of their first kiss, the innocent intensity of the moment their eyes met in shared understanding.

And then he ducks down to shove his face between Heron’s cheeks, swiping the tip of his tongue against his tight hole, moaning in pleasure as Heron cries out, shoving himself backwards, wordlessly begging for more.

Seraphim has no choice but to give it to him, his licks growing bolder, deeper, faster, his hands massaging the plump cheeks as Heron cants his hips up, broken moans spilling forth that sound vaguely like a litany of Seraphim’s name. Unable to wait a second longer to get inside, Seraphim sucks a finger into his mouth and places it at the tip of Heron’s hole, stroking slowly until Heron pushes back, looking over his shoulder at Seraphim with pleading eyes.

“Do it, _do it,_ come on.”

Seraphim grits his teeth as he obeys, a rush of precum spurting from the tip of his cock as he feels how tight Heron is inside, curling his finger before withdrawing it, pushing it back inside. He looks wildly around his brother’s bedroom, needing—

“Wait, wait,” Heron pants, immediately catching onto his train of thought, because in the next moment he’s pulling away, leaning over to his bedside drawer to pull out a small vial of oil, handing it to Seraphim with a sheepish smile. “Here.”

“How often do you use this?” Seraphim asks, raising an eyebrow, grateful for the small reprieve so he can get himself under control. Heron is a sight to behold, sighing deeply as he gets back into position, hugging the pillow tightly as he turns his head to watch Seraphim coat his fingers in the thick oil.

“Ummmm,” he laughs softly, his hair a chaotic mess of long curls, face flushed a deep pink as Seraphim strokes slowly at his hole. “Uhhh, often…”

“Often?” Seraphim questions, his voice low and curious, pressing one finger back inside, pushing it in deep, twisting, pulling back out, and then in again, slowly. “Like while I was right next door?”

Heron shudders as he moans softly, embarrassment blending beautifully with his growing arousal. _“Yessss,_ I—more, please, Seraphim—”

Seraphim presses a second finger inside, giving him a moment to adjust before abruptly picking up the pace, gut twisting in pleasure at the wet, thick sounds of his fingers fucking into Heron’s hole. “Were you thinking of this?” he asks lightly, at odds with the rough motions of his hand.

_“Fuuuuck_ , y—I—you—” Heron stutters as Seraphim introduces a third finger, opening his legs wider, frantically shoving his hair out of his heated face, brows knit in distraction. “That's, ah, _ohgods—”_

Seraphim laughs, spreading his fingers carefully, stretching him open. Bends over his back to gently brush Heron's hair away from his face, place his lips directly at his ear. “What do you want, little brother?”

Heron makes a rough sound into the pillow as he clenches down _hard_ , trembling with anticipation. “Please, I’m ready, I can take it,” he whimpers, barely audible.

Seraphim moans softly, biting the tip of Heron's ear before rising again, withdrawing his fingers to coat his cock in the oil. He breathes deeply for a moment, deliberately slowing his hand's pace on his cock, unwilling to end this too quickly. And then he places the thick head at Heron’s hole, loving the way it shines pink and wet against him. “Are you sure?”

_“Seraphim,”_ Heron growls, turning his head to glare back at him, and Seraphim nods, breaths stuttering as he succumbs, finally. His mouth falls open as he pushes his hips forward slowly, watching himself disappear inside of Heron, unable to quell a loud moan as his prick is engulfed in that vise-grip of hot pressure.

Slowly, inch by careful inch, he buries himself to the hilt, and then all he can do is breathe, heart hammering, his hair spilling forward to tickle Heron’s shoulders and back as he licks at the back of his neck, waiting for a signal to move. He nearly sobs when Heron finally turns and catches his gaze, the familiar blue of his eyes nearly subsumed in black.

“Fuck me, _please,_ I need you, Seraphim.”

_“Yes,”_ Seraphim growls, grasping Heron’s waist and pulling halfway out to plunge back in, swallowing thickly as Heron _wails_ , shoving inside again and again, their overlapping cries and grunts of pleasure forming the sweetest harmony. Seraphim’s hands are ceaseless on his brother’s skin, caressing the angled planes of his back, the muscled curves of his arms, down his sides and then bracing greedily against the rise of his ass, grunting softly as he buries himself in that tight, wet heat, the sharp, rhythmic smacks of flesh filling the air beneath their moans. And then he withdraws, his hard cock bobbing as he flips Heron back over, wordlessly bracing himself over him as he fucks back inside.

Heron wraps his arms around his neck immediately, fingers burying themselves into Seraphim’s hair as he pulls him down for a deep, open-mouthed kiss, sucking desperately on Seraphim’s tongue as he’s shoved upwards with every thrust. Seraphim insinuates a hand between their bodies to curl around Heron’s cock, breaking away from the kiss to bite at his neck while Heron emits a hoarse shout, his eyes rolling back as he spurts messily over Seraphim’s knuckles and his own stomach. 

“Seraphim,” he gasps, meeting his eyes as Seraphim grunts loudly, his expression one of dazed satisfaction, naked adoration. Seraphim feels like his heart might burst, grasping the back of Heron’s thigh tightly, spreading him further open as he ruts into his slick, twitching hole for his final thrusts, feeling his release build deep at the base of his spine, gasping as it finally crests and rushes through him like an unstoppable tide. 

_“I love you,”_ he whispers brokenly against Heron’s mouth, and then he’s stunned into silence as he empties himself deep inside, his vision blacking out at the totality of his pleasure.

When he comes to, blinking dazedly, Heron is pressing soft kisses to his lips, murmuring “I love you too,” between each one. He smiles when Seraphim hums in exhausted contentment, combing his fingers through his long hair, shifting slightly so he can pull out, but not letting him move any further away.

“M’not too heavy,” Seraphim mumbles, too tired to make it a question, and Heron shakes his head, wrapping a leg around one of his to keep him in place, evidently satisfied to let Seraphim just slump onto his chest, breaths huffing into his neck.

They fall asleep that way, breaths slowly evening out, chests rising and falling in perfect tandem.

* * *

A deep, slightly unpleasant ache greets Heron before the sun and faint birdsong does, his slow, reluctant climb into consciousness sweetened by the mass of hair against his face, the warm, solid body pressed warmly to his front. Seraphim is snoring quietly in his arms, and Heron takes several self-indulgent moments to remember the rapture of the previous night, the way Seraphim had held him and looked at him and whispered to him as he came, marking Heron as his own. The memory is enough to stir him to arousal, and he considers waking his brother by returning the favor of pleasuring him with his mouth, but then with a jolt he remembers Alexia, his face burning as he prays that she’d actually remained unconscious and senseless to the ungodly noises he and Seraphim had surely made.

“Seraphim,” he murmurs, brushing a mass of hair aside to kiss the bared skin of his back, shifting his legs to draw one knee up the back of Seraphim’s leg. “I need to check on Alexia.”

Seraphim inhales slowly, yawning, shuffling backward to cuddle closer to Heron. “Mmm-hmmm.”

Heron laughs quietly between more kisses, switching to a gentle bite, which pulls an interested hum from Seraphim. “You’re on my arm, I can’t get up.”

“So don’t get up,” Seraphim murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

“Alexia,” Heron repeats, and waits. Sure enough, Seraphim stiffens, his head lifting from the pillow as he half turns in Heron’s direction.

“She should still be asleep?!”

“I think so. But the doctor said we should check on her.”

“Alright, then, let’s go,” he says gruffly, as if it hadn’t been Heron’s idea in the first place, rising with another jaw-cracking yawn. Heron rolls his eyes and sits up as well, kissing the curve of Seraphim’s shoulder, the underside of his jaw, before standing up, wincing and hissing quietly.

Seraphim glances over, and the knowing heat in his eyes makes Heron swallow. They just look at each other for a long moment, the air thick with the shared memory of everything they’d done, the anticipation of everything they have yet to do, the multiplicity of ways to bring each other to the peak of pleasure, over and over. 

“Come on,” Heron says quietly, reaching out to take his hand and lead them away from the bed before they forget what they’re supposed to be doing. Seraphim obliges, though not without stealing a brief, tender kiss before they leave the room.

As promised, Alexia is still deep in slumber when they poke their heads into Seraphim’s room, pulling twin sighs of relief from them. 

“She looks better,” Heron remarks as he moves closer to the bed, watching her take deep, even breaths, the natural color returned to her skin. Seraphim nods, crossing over to crack open a window, letting in a fresh breeze. Alexia murmurs and turns over in sleep, the early morning sunlight setting alight the golden hue of her hair.

“Let’s leave her to rest,” Seraphim says after a moment, and they do, closing the door quietly. 

* * *

It’s incredibly difficult to part, but they must, as life and its attendant responsibilities refuses to halt to allow them to bask in their newfound bliss. Thankfully, the day’s end brings them back into each other’s arms, a flurry of bruising kisses pressed up against the hastily shut front door, whispered greetings and laughing gasps pressed to each other’s mouths as they stumble into Heron’s room, impatient to lose themselves in each other again.

It’s hard for Seraphim to recall the guilt he once felt for desiring this, for dreaming of his brother’s lips wrapped around his cock, those piercing blue eyes staring up at him as his tongue teases at the leaking head, his fingers tightly clutching Seraphim’s ass as he bobs and gags wetly around him. All the nights of agonized shame after saying goodnight, lying awake in his bed and covering his mouth to muffle his moans as he spilled over his fist—when Heron had been in the room down the hall, doing the exact same thing. It’s hilarious, really, when the only people whose opinions on the subject mattered were the ones who were denying themselves this shared pleasure in the first place.

Now, though, he can joke and laugh with Heron and watch his eyes crinkle in humor, no longer having to dismiss the helpless swell of affection he feels. Now he can reach out to accept or initiate an easy touch, curling a hand around Heron’s hip as he passes him in the kitchen, brushing his fingers through his hair as Heron reads to him from one of the books he likes to buy in the market from time to time, or sweep gentle fingers down the jut of a perfect cheekbone, like right now. 

Heron’s eyes fall shut with a soft moan as Seraphim caresses his face, brushing over the arch of his brow, the solid line of his jaw, his other hand buried deep in his curls, rocking his hips slowly into his eager mouth. It’s hot and wet and perfect and Seraphim can feel his face contort in pleasure as Heron ghosts gentle fingers against the sensitive spot behind his balls, knees weakening as his orgasm begins to wash over him, and then he can’t hold back a long, guttural moan as he pulls out, painting Heron’s eager face in thick spurts as he strokes himself to completion. Heron gasps as Seraphim drops to his knees and immediately cleans up the mess with long swipes of his tongue, holding his head in place until he’s finished, the resulting kiss wet and absolutely filthy.

Seraphim pulls away to suck a bruise into Heron's neck as he wraps his hand around his cock, sensing from the pitch of his moans how close he is, pleased when Heron keens, grasping Seraphim tightly as he humps helplessly into his hand. 

“Fuck, fuck, _yes,_ like that, like that,” Heron whimpers, the sounds fast and slick as he moans brokenly into Seraphim's ear, barely managing to conceal his sharp cry as he comes in messy spurts across the floor, panting harshly as Seraphim hums, pleased, fondling his oversensitive cock until Heron bats his hand away with a breathless laugh.

And then there’s a knock at the door, and they both freeze, gazing at each other in consternation.

“One, uh—just a minute!” Heron calls out, his voice breaking, and really, if it wasn’t already patently obvious what was going on, it is now. He knows it, grimacing at Seraphim, who can only laugh soundlessly, rising on unsteady legs to help Heron up after him.

“How do I look?” Heron whispers, and Seraphim shakes his head.

“No better than I do, I’m sure,” he says ruefully, as they quickly finish adjusting their clothes. And then Heron throws open the door, his smile both bashful and relieved when Alexia just looks back at them, dry humor in her expression.

“Good morning,” she says sarcastically, her eyes traveling between them. “I...wanted to thank you for letting me stay. I feel much better.”

“Nonsense, you had to heal,” Heron responds cajolingly, gesturing with a hand down the hall. “I imagine you could use a good meal.”

“I could eat,” Alexia says idly as they head toward the kitchen, Seraphim closing the door behind him to conceal the obscene spatter of cum still streaked along the floor. “Though I might politely request that whoever prepares the meal thoroughly clean his hands first.”

There’s a pregnant silence at her words, and she lowers herself gracefully to sit in a chair as Seraphim and Heron trail into the kitchen after her, glancing at each other uncertainly. 

“Look, I—” Heron begins, but snaps his mouth shut again when her shoulders quake, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. And then she quakes again, a loud snort escaping as she finally crumbles into gasping laughter, her eyes swimming with mirth.

Seraphim bites his lip and shrugs as he looks again at Heron, then sidles past him to subtly begin cleaning his hands. Heron moves carefully into the chair opposite her, sitting and watching her warily as if she might yet attack, hurling obscenities his way.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she giggles, her face pink. “No _wonder_ you two were acting so strange before.”

“I’m sorry if—” Heron starts, before he’s interrupted again by a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Why are you apologizing? This is your home, and you're both adults,” she says breezily, glancing over his shoulder to direct her words at Seraphim too. “You don’t have to worry about me judging you. The gods themselves couldn’t judge you, for that matter.”

There’s another silence as both men absorb the truth of her statement, and Heron turns to give Seraphim a bright smile and eyebrow raise.

And Seraphim — Seraphim just adores him.

“Well!” Alexia says finally. “Now that that’s out of the way, I really _am_ hungry.”

* * *

Later that evening, as they watch the stars, Heron takes Seraphim’s hand, their fingers slotting together in casual intimacy. This time, Seraphim does not doubt the surety of his love, nor the simple, boundless privilege of having it returned. 

When he glances over at Alexia, she’s gazing up to the heavens, the silvery gleam of the crescent moon softening the upward curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes when she turns to look back at him.

“Heron,” she calls softly, “Tell us again of the Pleiades.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that's not too painful a cliffhanger, but the spirit compelled me to stop here. I'll let your imaginations fill the rest however you'd like 😘
> 
> happy valentine's day, and thank you for the love!


End file.
